She also took photos of the candles on the floor, all burned out, arranged in the shape of another pentacle.

One of the suited figures near the body looked up, apparently distracted by the shutter sound on her phone. Hawkins didn’t recognize the scowling features as the man stood and came towards them, but she estimated late thirties, and a stocky, shoulder-heavy build. Jowly cheeks and an undershot jaw became visible as he pulled down an anti-contamination mask.

He held up a hand in a classic anti-paparazzi gesture, blocking her shot. ‘Who are you?’

From the single earphone hanging outside his overall, Hawkins caught the tinny strains of the Four Seasons.

Oh what a night …

‘Chief Inspector Antonia Hawkins.’ She returned his scowl. ‘Senior Investigating Officer. I might ask you the same thing.’

‘Hugo Knight, Senior Met Pathologist.’

She remembered reading the name somewhere, a pending transfer from East Anglia. ‘I thought you weren’t coming till next year.’

‘Change of plan.’ He leaned on the door frame, marking his territory. ‘Who let you in?’

‘Look, we’re all on the same team, so let’s dispense with the pissing competition, shall we?’ She held up a hand, requesting passage, but Knight drew himself wider in the gap. They stared at each other for a moment, until one of the SOCOs called his name. He turned without removing himself from her path, but Hawkins needed no further invitation. She ducked under his arm and took a step into the room.

‘Hey!’ Knight grabbed her suit. ‘I haven’t granted you access.’

‘Access?’ Hawkins pointedly freed herself from his grip. ‘We’re suited-up the same as all your guys. There’s no reason for us not to be in here.’

‘Well, I’m sure you know best, Detective. Please, contaminate away.’ Knight shook his head and stomped out of the room.

‘Wow.’ Aaron watched him go before joining Hawkins. ‘And I thought you women were moody.’

‘Careful.’ She watched the sergeant shrink under her resulting glare and turned back to scan the room, her eye coming to rest on the wall she hadn’t been able to see from outside. She heaved a sigh. ‘What now?’

Aaron followed her gaze. Clumsily, he read the words scrawled in large letters across the tatty wallpaper. ‘Qui hic ingratus est. What does that mean?’

‘It’s Latin,’ a passing SOCO explained, having heard their conversation. ‘It translates as: He who is not welcome here.’

49

Malcolm Byford shuffled into the interview room, kicking gently at the skirts of his black robe to avoid tripping over them, the effect more comical than intimidating now he was minus the large goat head mask.

The grisly artefact had been confiscated the moment Malcolm and his crew were arrested. But all members had spent a night in the cells at Southall station still dressed in their heavy ceremonial clothes, and Hawkins caught the distinct whiff of bonfire smoke as he sat opposite her.